The observation room was silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation. The one-way glass separated from the isolation chamber; beyond it, the light web of Harmony Lattice floated gently, mirroring the slow beat etched in Rinoa's chest. A machine hummed softly, creating a calming atmosphere, yet reminding all present that every second here was significant.

  Serise stood near a glass table littered with rune manuscripts and glowing ledgers. His purple cloak swept the floor as he turned, gazing at Fitran with an expression rich in meaning. “Phase one is stable,” he spoke softly, “but there are things we need to discuss.” He restrained a note of relief to avoid appearing celebratory. “The healers are watching closely. We have time to talk without making them feel uneasy.”

  Fitran did not sit. He leaned against the wall, his eyes darting between the status lines of Rinoa and Serise’s silver gaze. “You said ‘just the two of us.’ Does that mean there are no political witnesses here?” he asked, his voice firm yet tinged with uncertainty.

  “There’s no one else,” Serise replied, lightly tapping the edge of the table as though attempting to ease the tension. “It's just the two of us here.” She continued, “And your willingness to consider the risks that are seldom acknowledged honestly. Let’s speak plainly—whatever happens, we must be brave enough to expose everything.”

  Fitran let out a heavy sigh, “If this is about my actions at Ashen Refuge, I hold no regrets. I did what was necessary.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Serise retorted, her hands moving swiftly as she retrieved a thin shard of crystal from the pile. Slowly, she projected a simple graph into the air, its line sharply descending, breaking, and then creeping at its lowest point. “Do you see this?” she asked, her gesture emphasizing the gravity of the information. “This is the birth rate following the Heaven Wars. You might have seen a version polished by propaganda; these are unfiltered numbers.”

  Fitran examined the graph for a moment, his gaze probing. “It drops sharply, then stabilizes at the bottom of the chasm,” he observed, his voice firm, reflecting deep unease. “Do we truly comprehend its meaning?”

  Serise shook her head slowly, "It's not that simple," she said, exhaling heavily, her lips forming a tight line. "The chasm keeps being dug deeper. We call it Nullbirth Window: the phase when the majority of fetuses fail to survive past the second week. This is a result of the decisions we've made."

  Fitran looked again at the graph, studying the details with great care. "A sharp decline, then stable at the bottom of the chasm," he said flatly, assessing the data spread before him without any signs of exaggeration.

  "It's far more serious than it appears," Serise replied, her lips forming a dry line as her gaze remained fixed on the diagram. "This chasm keeps broadening. We refer to it as Nullbirth Window: the window during which the majority of fetuses fail to survive after the second week of pregnancy. The causes are a complex blend—conceptual radiation, pollutants from the rituals, and one specific element." She pulled out a second sheet of paper and added, "A virus."

  Fitran did not blink; his sharp eyes remained focused like a hawk. "What is its name?" he asked, his voice revealing a deep curiosity.

  “There are many names that must be used to serve political interests,” Serise replied calmly, her expression betraying not a hint of doubt. “In our laboratory, we refer to it as the Sterile Choir Variant—SCV-7. This virus is not what you might think; it is a fragment of post-Heaven Strain nano spores. They have learned to mimic the 'rules of angels' at a biochemical level.”

  “Seriously? How dangerous is it, really?” Fitran inquired, his voice now sounding heavier and more serious.

  “It doesn’t make people sick like the epidemics we know,” Serise answered, continuing her explanation. “But it destroys sperm in an instant. Its motility drops dramatically, cell membranes become fragile, and cell death occurs within minutes when exposed outside the natural aether protection.”

  Her gaze traced the small sensor plate that was neatly attached to her wrist. “In some regions, the half-life of cell viability is only sixty seconds,” she continued, her tone blending concern with firmness. “Not many can fathom the tragedy that unfolds without sound.”

  “Terranova needs donors,” Fitran said, his voice flat like the calm of a still waterway. “Can we obtain what we require?” The pressure mounted, revealing a faint uncertainty in his tone.

  “You won’t skirt around it with metaphors in front of me,” Serise shot back, locking her gaze onto him, a clear challenge etched in her eyes. “We need descendants from a line that can withstand degradation—not just frozen samples. We need children who can be born and live, not mere statistical data we can hope for.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Serise did not dismiss him. “Donors alone aren't enough, Fitran. We need descendants from a line that can endure—not just frozen samples. Children who can be born and survive, not merely vectors we can gamble on.”

  She shut off the projection, leaving behind a silence filled only by the hum of machinery. “I will speak plainly, Fitran. I want a child from you.”

  The voice did not tremble. Serise regarded him with an unblinking stare, eager to ensure this message was not mere power play. “Speak your true reason, one deeper than mere politics,” Fitran pressed, his tone steady yet laced with profound intensity.

  “There are two things I want to emphasize,” Serise began, slowly stepping forward half a pace with a serious expression. “First, the conceptual resilience within your bloodline—the void that flows within you does not tarnish the integrity of your name like it does with others; it is a mark of protection that should be passed down. Second,” she continued, “I am a woman now confronted with a hormonal window that is closing faster than I anticipated—exposure to Gamma residue is ruthlessly shattering my hours. If I do not act now, it feels as if time will run out of meaning. This is not about poetry, but a reality I must grapple with, quite literally.”

  Serise fixed Fitran with a sharp gaze, filled with a hope she could not conceal. “I want to experience being a mother before this entire world machinery decides there is no longer a place for me in that role.”

  Fitran processed her words slowly, as if inspecting a finely crafted sword. “If this is your personal request,” he stated, his voice firm yet gentle, “where is the line between this request and merely being an instrument in a negotiation?”

  “It lies here,” Fitran replied, tapping his left chest above the emblem yet to be sewn. “You have the right to refuse. Rinoa will still receive his attention. I will not make someone else’s life a guarantee to patch the statistical gaps.”

  Serise looked confused, her brow furrowing. “But how can you guarantee that?”

  “There are no guarantees that can close the gaps behind,” he replied firmly, as if trying to leave a mark of certainty amid the doubts that hung in the air.

  “None,” he reiterated with conviction, lifting a shimmering sheet of the rune contract that glistened under the dim light. “This contract will only take effect if both parties agree and possess their own personal Mirror-Law key—not one issued by any institution. We can sign it later, or even choose not to do so at all. However, I want you to understand what is truly at stake,” Fitran continued, his gaze fixed seriously on Serise, “for the world will never cease to demand from you—be it my words or the more heinous actions of others.”

  Fitran then turned to the one-way mirror, his expression revealing doubt. “You know, I’m bound to someone,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “It’s not just an ordinary relationship; she is part of the rhythm that keeps my humanity intact.” With hope shining in his eyes, he looked back at Serise. “Are you willing to borrow that rhythm from her?”

  “No,” Serise replied firmly, without hesitation. “I know my position, and I understand hers. I do not intend to take your heart. I merely need the right to emerge from a seed that seems desperately wanted to be eradicated by this world. Others have tried in various ways—intimidating, manipulating. Yet, I choose to confront you and ask, more sincerely.”

  Serise observed Fitran, her feelings in turmoil. “Who exactly are the ‘others’ you mention?” Her voice reflected disbelief, cold and resolute.

  “Those who also understand the numbers,” Serise replied, her eyes scrutinizing every shift in Fitran's expression. “I do not wish to name them. However, I can sense the closeness you have to them, enough to offer a proper warning.”

  Fitran frowned, his tone laced with confusion. “What do you mean? Who are they?”

  “Some of them see your bodily consent as just a formality that can be disregarded. They treat all of this as if it were merely a game.” Serise shook her head, her tone firm, clearly signifying her unwillingness to associate with such individuals. “I am not one of them. You must understand this. A child born from coercion will only bring disaster.”

  Fitran crossed his arms over his chest, the expression on his face reflecting profound seriousness. “So, you want me to agree to something that could change our entire lives? We are speaking of life and death here.”

  “Exactly,” Serise replied, intertwining her fingers in a gesture of reflection, as if to control the tension that was gradually starting to ease. “This is not just an offer; this is an agreement. I will be the one to set the terms.”

  “Hm,” Fitran shifted in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to process all the information he had just received. “State your methods before I discuss my terms.”

  “There are two paths to choose from,” Serise replied, raising two of her fingers as if to provide a definitive explanation. “The first path is In vitro magitek. We will take a sample from you using a void-shelled vial and stabilize it with an aether cold-curve. This will ensure that SCV-7 loses its 'teeth' in the first fifty seconds.” Serise continued, her focus seemingly plunging into the process, “After that, the embryo will be implanted into my womb through the Kindling Gate ritual. No mana injection. Only my own aether and nutrients as a catalyst.”

  “That sounds rather complicated,” Fitran commented, his brow furrowing, revealing deep uncertainty and hesitation.

  “In truth, it’s not as simple as you might imagine,” Serise replied, striving to convey her confidence amid the confusion. “The second path, which we call the Natural anchor-cycle, utilizes your close presence to enhance cell viability. The resonance of your name on the membrane plays a crucial role here. This process might be simpler, but I do not wish to burden you if you feel uncertain.”

  With a note of frustration, Fitran asked, “You know my choice, don’t you?”

  “I hope the first path is the only option you deem worthy,” Serise answered, her tone sincere and understanding. “Yet ultimately, the decision lies in your hands.”

  “I think I have to choose the first path,” Fitran said, a hint of disappointment